Work Text:
What is power without consequence? In this moment, as Gojo Satoru observes the pitiful form of his cherished friend, he believe his punishment has been served.
Here, Suguru lies, his hand clutching the pit of his shoulder. It was a helpless attempt at stopping the river of red streaming downwards, staining inbetween his fingers. At the sight, Satoru recalls the juice which inked Suguru’s fingers as they plucked berries in the past. Suguru’s fingers were sticky with blood. His fingers were sticky with youth.
It was those fingers on which the dainty, wooden stick of their popsicle was held between. It felt sacred for Suguru to offer his friend the indulgent treat. Satoru found great delight in welcoming the bitter cold against his teeth. Time was frozen in that moment; that simple act proved enough for them. They were connected: hand to popsicle. Popsicle to mouth. Eye to eye. Gentle breaths mingling from the proximity of their shared consumption, Satoru felt as if they lived in one another. Breathed and knew one another. It was electric.
It was those fingers which pointed to the summer light filtering through the rustling leaves above them. Suguru would point to the sky, to the moon, to the heavens, but Satoru never took notice of the subject matter. Suguru would point, and Satoru would always look at his hand. In Satoru’s mind, nothing else mattered when it came to his best friend.
The balance of the world shifted when Gojo Satoru was born, yet the axis on which Satoru’s world revolved around belonged to Geto Suguru.
The Six Eyes gaze at Suguru like a man already dead. The way a blind man would bare his eyes upon an eclipse, the damage already done. But Satoru sees him as he always had. Suguru was radiant and precious to him. Kneeling close to Suguru, Satoru allows himself to be vulnerable as his sentiments towards his beloved spills. Hearing his words manifest upon contact with the chill winter air, Satoru becomes deeply aware of his intensifying feelings. The enormity of his heartbreak devours Satoru whole.
With a chuckle and a smile, Suguru simply says, “At least curse me a little at the end.” The thought is sadly amusing to Satoru; how could he ever?
With mercy born from the memories of their youth, of their love, Satoru offers him death. The touch is unfamiliarly tender and delicate, and Satoru wonders if Suguru can feel the conviction of his words behind his touch. Suguru’s hand falls limp from his shoulder and all Satoru does is stare. He already longs for soul which puppeteered that hand.
Gojo Satoru is famed for being the strongest but he knows deep down he is foolish. That day, a part of him perished. The part that he loved. It is a winter evening and Gojo Satoru thinks to himself: It is cruel to survive. It is cruel to be alone. It is cruel to be strong.